


Boom

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Series: Powder Keg series [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkwardness, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Curses, Dean gets dark, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Graphic Description, Gross, Light Bondage, Lust Potion/Spell, Magic dick, Reader-Insert, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut, Violence, Witches, all the right people are okay in the end, gross descriptions of impending death, life saving sex, suggestions of suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2016-12-21
Packaged: 2018-09-10 20:21:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8937769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: You and Dean follow up on a coven tip off, and once again you’re struck with a curse that Sam must cure.  Except that, unlike last time, it really is fuck or die.Meanwhile, Dean's responsible for the witch you met last time, and he blames her for your situation.  He has to decide what he'll do with her.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MaryDove_ofUtah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaryDove_ofUtah/gifts).



> This is a sequel to Crash, where you were hit with a lust curse and you asked Sam to help you out (goes really well, all things considered). That was for a request asking for reader to be hit with a lust curse that’s cured in the library. I misread it and stuffed it up (no library-located cure there). Here’s the fix - knew I'd get there eventually.
> 
> Feedback would be much appreciated on this one, including if the blurb is okay, ethical debates, whatever. Hit me.

“Have you been naughty?”  Sam’s voice is deep and heavy by your temple, and almost too breathy.

He’s got his hands on your waist, looking model-made in his snug briefs and jeans.  You’re feeling much more immature than you are.

“…Yes,” you say obediently.  It took you a minute.

Sam huffs and blinks down at you. “Yeah, you’re supposed to say yes.”

“I said yes.”

“‘Cause then I’m supposed to punish you.”

“Yeah I get it.  I just… I dunno, you’re a bit scary.  Thought maybe I should say no.” You freeze a hopeful smile.

“C’mon Y/N!” Sam whines, trying not to laugh.  “Come on, you said you wanted to try this.”

“I do!” you whine back, doing a little dance in your unbuttoned shirt and soft shorts.  “It’s just tricky to not think about what we’re actually doing!  It’s so aw-kwaaard!”

“Huuuugh,” he leans his head on yours, squeezing your waist.  “I’m about to punish you just for being a pain in the ass.”

You run your fingers up and down his arms, enjoying the way they ripple over his smooth skin, marvelling at how impossible it is to get any part of them in your hand all at once.  Nice to try though.

You take a deep breath, let your bra lace brush against him with it, and wonder which direction you should take seeing as you can’t seem to recreate whatever it was that lust spell did to you. It’s been a whole three weeks already and the more distant the memory, the worse it gets.  You’ve been keeping it vanilla, getting to know each other, and it has been thoroughly hot, and surprising at times… Then Sam suggested role-playing, with lots of sweet talk and checking but… just… you kept expecting him to use an accent or something.  It was weird.

“I’m sorry,” you say, honest and quiet. You push your fingertips up the muscles on his back, soothing and massaging. “I’ll try to get on board more if you want to try again tonight.  I mean, I want to.  I don’t mean to be a pain the ass.”

“Yes you do,” he mumbles.  “It’s your strongest weapon.  Ass painery.”

You nuzzle in his hair and kiss behind his ear, slip your touch down his torso, caressing his mood away, trying to suggest something intimate maybe.  Fact is, you’re still not used to having him this close. Sam’s physique and sweetness and God given everything else, it makes you vibrate with admiration and desire.  It’s verging on too much and you cringe at your fangirling.  Your beautiful friendship remains, has improved even, but the privilege of being with him like this still floors you every time.  

“Anyway, you started it and now you’re goofing around.  I should tie you up and gag you,” he grumbles, “just to get your mouth out of the way.”

You give the slightest of coughs, just a rough break of breath, and lick your lips.  Sam notices and realises.

“That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want pretend punishment,” he turns his face, lips against your ear, excited and pushing your head, bending so he can wrap his hold around your waist.  There’s nothing fake about his tone when he says “You want me to make a rule, Y/N?  Something you can break?…”

Okay.

“Find a way for you to disobey me…”

Okay, now you’re… _Okay_.

The force in his words bounces off your ear and hair, and the tickle makes you wince into your shoulder.  Sam pushes back and quickly gets his hands on your forearms, pushing them into your sides and angling you straight.  His arm muscles bunch like a roll call, and you feel his enthusiasm lock in place.  

“You still got that scarf, Y/N?”

Shit, when did he start saying your name like that?

“Those stockings?” He’s talking firmly, tightly, pressing his face into your skin so hard you can’t tell if there’re kisses happening or not.  He’s just _got_ you.

You tilt your head for him, your self-control almost swooned away, and listen to him think out loud.

“I didn’t expect you’d want to do that again so soon.”  He turns you both and slowly backs you toward the bed, his teeth biting against your jaw as he speaks, eye to eye.  “Should I get you spread-eagled?  Ankles too?  Or strung out long and taut…  All damselled and curvy.”

You’re heaving your breath already, unable to form a thought that’s strong enough to break out of your brain.  You close your eyes, frowning a little, feeling your lips and fingers tingle.  And then he says something that just makes your thermostat burst.

“Maybe I can find a rope long enough to wrap under the bed… knee to knee.”

Your eyes snap to him so tightly it’s almost audible.  The mattress is against your calves, and Sam is arched over you, your body rag-dolled against his belly from his words and strength.  Then he kisses you, hard enough to push your head back, until you can’t hold it up anymore.  When you let it slump, hanging off your neck he kisses just under your chin asking “Have you been bad, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you rasp, skin tight from the stretch.

“I’m gonna get you so good.” Sam shifts his hold, readying to lay you-

_ZZZT ZZZT_

You both pause.

_ZZZT ZZZT_

Sam stops and lifts his head, thinking.

_ZZZT ZZZT_

He glances over to the desk and can see from here that it’s Dean calling.  Dean knows you’re busy.

_ZZZT ZZZT_

“Shit” he whispers.

You didn’t think you were puffing, but you’re definitely puffing.  Sam tilts you upright and runs his hands up and down your arms a few times, taking a deep breath for himself as he breaks away from what you’re doing.

You beat him to it, lunging to the desk and answering the phone yourself.

“Dean I hate you.”

“Hey, Y/N, I know-”

“I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns.  And not like our calm, stable sun.  Like those stars that’re about to go supernova, a whole constellation of them in the shape of a big sparkly dick -”

“Woah!  Hey! I know you’re bizzay, or whatever, _it’s important.”_

“I would say fuck you, but… you know.”

“Yeah, yeah - gimme Sam.”

From behind, Sam slides his palm across your chest and grasps your shoulder, resting his forearm there to hug you close, and takes the phone from your ear.  He sways a little as he talks to Dean.

“So the president’s in trouble,” Sam guesses.

“Sam-”

“Jesus called?”

“Shuttup.  It’s the coven.”

“What coven? Gretel’s coven?”

“Why did he have to tell _you_ that?” you gripe.

Dean yells his reply “ _Because I’m cock-blocking my brother with this news._ Seriously dude,” he drops his volume for Sam, “it’s the middle of the day.  Why do you make me do this?”

“We had nothing else on,” Sam shrugs.

“Ugh.  Look.  Point is, Gretel’s gone but she wasn’t the leader, not by a long shot.  It’s big, and it’s looks like there’s a handful of vics over near Leavenworth.”

….

You’ve been on a strict rotation for two-person jobs, ever since the get go. Hooking up with Sam is no reason to change it, nor is the chance you’ll non-accidentally shoot bean-blocking Dean in the shin. So Sam stays behind while you and Dean head off to investigate the coven in person.

After four days, you’ve got it somewhat figured out.  There’s a grand old house in the oldest part of town. It’s large and dark, with twiggy decorations in the trees and a garden full of obscure herbs.  It practically wiggles its porch at you everytime you drive by, but you know that it’s not it.  And you know because that’s where Gretel _used_ to live.  The big red Sold sticker is still on the real estate board.

In the newest part of town, however, there’s an unusually large cupcake store and if you watch for long enough and pay attention to the times for long enough you’ll see the same handful of women come and go.  And if you were inside and listened well, you’d see each of them mention the same item in their orders - “Frangipani & Vanilla bean, please, if there’s any left,” - with the same pouch of ingredients slipped in with those orders.

In the last minutes before your investigation goes face-to-face, you and Dean are in the Impala’s front seat and checking your weapons, parked across from the rear of the bakery.  “Okay, so how confident are we that it’s not just a marijuana ring?” you wonder.

“Not very,” Dean considers. “But that wouldn’t be the end of the world either.  There’s definitely more than basil and cinnamon in that shit.”

“Oh see now I’m thinking of Greek food.”

“Oh _yeah_. Let’s do that after.”

“Deal.  Okay, go find a spot and give me 10 to get in the front?”

“Yup, see you inside.  Don’t let them powder you this time, will ya?” he grins and gets out, making a quiet path down the back alley.

“Don’t let dem powder you dis time,” you mince, grumbling _Little shit_ to yourself while you head around to the main entrance.  

Business is bustling, so it’s easy enough to get yourself in front of the Staff Only door without raising an eyebrow.  You shoulder through and find it’s relatively quiet: Seems the baking has finished for the day. You make your way down to the back of the kitchen, between the shining benches and shelves, feeling fairly obvious amongst all the steel.  

The back wall has four options: an open doorway with a plastic-panel curtain; a regular door next to that; then two freezer doors.  One of them is marked “Speciality Items: see supervisor for access”.  

 _Sure_.

You try the handle.  The lever gives to its full angle, the mechanism sounds like it should, but the door won’t budge.  Just in case, you murmur a spell, something that might reverse a witchcrafted lock.  You may as well have announced Open Sesame because lo and behold…

The inside is just like a cooler, but without the cool, and the back panel isn’t even that secret.  You carry your gun in both hands and use your shoulder to push gently, then harder, and the panel eases open.  It’s quiet and you wait a moment to confirm, trying to separate the faint hubbub of the bakery with what might be before you.

After seconds of no movement and no noise you edge it open a full 2 inches and look.  It’s bright and enclosed, a few feet of room visible but there’s only an armchair to speak of.  You keep pushing, nothing new or interesting being revealed, so push through and come into the room proper, quietly spinning to set your sights on whatever may be there.

For a second you freeze, your aim automatically landing on a man behind a desk and a woman sitting opposite him, her back to you.   _Shit!_ you think, _Civilians!_ but you’re wrong.

He peers at you, scowls and murmurs something so dark your ears nearly fold in on themselves.  The woman before him turns in surprise and watches as your body presses itself against the wall, sideways and squished, and you grunt at the pressure.

He rises slowly.  He’s tall and refined, a hand stretched out in a gesture to hold you.  “Take her weapon,” he orders.  His voice is ridiculously smooth, like treacle.  

The woman scuttles over, pursing her lips as she carefully wraps her hands around your gun.  You seem helpless to stop her, your traitorous digits gone limp.

“Oh heyy!” she says.

You frown and realise how hard it is to breathe, gasping a bit.  “Sally?” you grunt.  “What the fuck?”

She thinks you’re asking for news.  “Yeah! I moved!” she announces, she unfolds her arms in a _ta-da_ style over her head, palms to the ceiling with your damn gun in one of them.  “Huuuh?! How about that huh?  Small world!”

“What the fuck?” you grunt again, trying to shift your feet for leverage.

“So yeah, I bought Gretel’s place,” she nods.  “Which is kinda perfect ‘cause I took her place in the coven too.”

“Sally,” you gasp, wishing you could feel the tops of your lungs.

“Ya huh?”

“I don’t give a shit.”

“Oh,” she deflates.  “Okay, well, I’m glad you got through that Lust spell okay.  Ya did, did’ncha?”

You wince and grunt a bit more, realising it’s just your shoulders that are pinned, but you stop struggling altogether when you see the bespoke dude has come up behind Sally, right over her shoulder now.  And he’s got a solid gaze on you.

Sally feels him behind her and licks her lips, her eyebrows give away a little thought, a teeny wonder, just quickly:  “You haven’t seen Dean recent-”

“What kind of lust spell did you use Sally?” he croons.  It feels like your ears are dripping honey.

“Oh, it was the red powder one, and I used a time-or-trip trigger to end it,” she chirps confidently.

“On a hunter?” he nudges his shoulder in front of hers, getting a better look at you.

“Yeah, well,” Sally hedges herself here.  She’s not sure which answer is correct.  “I was in a hurry, and it was kinda a mistake, in a sorta-”

“I like your style Sally,” he says, gazing at your neck and hair.

“Well thank you Lucius,” she nods.

You scowl hard.   _How dare he be called Lucius.  That is just annoying._

“These hunters are a crude lot,” he turns and opens a dark wood cabinet.  It’s top shelf is crowded with little bottles and vials, like a miniature glass city.  He looks them over as he speaks, the push on your bones no weaker from his distractions.  “They haven’t the ways or means to undo or overcome such a spell and occupying them with something like sex… well, it’s kind of poetic.”

He reaches in and plucks a little red bottle from the shelf, turning back as he goes on.  “Most hunters spend all their spare time humping whatever looks sideways at them anyway.”

For some stupid reason, this guy was starting to get on your nerves.  Not the good ones either.

With a gesture, he releases your body from his trap and you turn to face him, then he mutters something more, and- “For fuck’s sake!” -your feet are stuck, barely two feet from the wall, then your hands are pulled down to your thighs with what feels like rope. (- _Don’t think of Sam, Don’t think of Sam_ -)  The invisible bonds feel scratchy and dry.  Impressively authentic, you think, and it occurs to you that Lucius may be more powerful than any coven leader you’ve met before.  What else has your research missed?

“I would advise you though Sally, to be a little more firm in your work with hunters,” he utters, the words having a bit more bite now.  He stands before you, peering down, sweeping his eyes over your skin.  If he wasn’t such a creepy, curly asshole he’d actually be quite handsome.  A sort of Mediterranean Benedict Cumberditch.  Instead you’re beginning to use the ties to lever yourself backwards, just a little.

“I’ve used that one before.  The first three hunters I met were out of the game in months,” he reports smugly.  “One of them suicided and the others just lost their nerve.  They always have someone, someone who means the world to them, and if you can throw the right spanner into the mix…” he tips and tilts the bottle he holds, considering its contents.  “Well, they’re all so fragile… brittle… they just don’t survive.  But it still leaves it all to chance.”

“I’m… I’m not sure what you have in mind, Lucius,” Sally frowns.  “Did you want me to disfigure her, or somethin’?”

“I mean death, Sally.” The stopper leaves the bottle with a little _boh_ , and you wonder where the hell Dean is.  “I think I’m done showing mercy to this lot.”

Sally moves around to watch from the side and Lucius tips out a little pile of powder into his palm, curling his fingers over so it can’t be blown away, spreading it across his skin.  Your glare is dashing between her, Lucius, and what he’s doing with his hands as he puts the bottle in his pocket. Your muscles try to move you backwards, with no give at all.

Then he moves with intent and speed.  He grabs the back of your head with one hand, and slaps the powdery palm over your mouth and nose, getting your skull in a mean vice and stilling you with his strength.

The powder is cool and smooth and smells of scorched heart.  Somehow you know, it’s not just meat or skin, but heart, sad and burnt.  You squeeze your eyes shut and cough into his palm, blinking, finding your hands are now free to grab at him.  Seems he likes a struggle too.  

You hold your breath, trying to push and yank and wrench his hold all while listening to the words coming out of his smiling mouth.  

The incantation is familiar, similar to Sally’s those weeks ago, but not quite the same and you can’t think of how.  You hope not inhaling during the incantation will protect you.  As soon as he’s finished speaking you’re busting to breathe and your breaking gasp sucks the dust into your body, like a ribbon of ash down the back of your tongue and up into the raw softness behind your nose, acrid and stinging. You feel a need to hack a cough, something noisy and retching, but as your lungs fill it all changes.

Just like in Sally’s store, a lightness consumes you, yet this time it’s from within your chest and you think the feet-anchoring spell is all that’s keeping you grounded.  A strawberry sweetness, liquor-light and cool, floods your body, racing along your bones and throbbing out to your skin.  It makes your hair stand on end so hard there’s almost a breeze about you.  Your arms float back as your chest lifts and your lips fall cool and empty.

You breathe out, everything feeling slow and far away.  The dust that puffs from your mouth rolls out like a grey mist, billowing and smokey.

“Four hours,” he sneers, then steps back and slaps you across the face hard enough to drop you.  

Crumpled on the carpet, you recognise the syrupy warmth that oozes over you, everything doubling in weight - your cheeks, your chin, the hang of your calves, even your ears feel fat with waiting, and the flavour of a sweaty-sweet musk, something akin to your own juices, seems to settle on your tongue.

You pull out your phone, not even sure if this is what you should be doing, and dial Sam just in case, working a heavy, swim back to the wall like a landed squid.  Lucius watches you fumble and wonder as you drag your mind through sensations that overwhelm all your basic abilities.  Then he glances over at Sally and sees her aghast, gun dropped by her feet, hand over her mouth as she stares at her leading witch.  She runs her palms back and forth across her belly, then up and down her sides, starting to hum rhythmically, looking sad and hopeful and jittery.

“What?” he asks, pinched and annoyed.

Dean bursts in, gun raised and sees you crumpled, puffing, face smeared with silvery fingerprints and decides he’s going to say nothing for as long as possible.  He frowns at Sally, remembering the day she spent enslaved to him under her own botched mastery spell and notes she doesn’t look much more sensible now.

“Hello,” Lucius grins, “and what would your name be?”

Dean doesn’t fall for it.  He nods at your drunken gaze, aim sharp on Lucius and watches as Sam’s voice once again licks its way into your head and winds itself down your spine.  You thud yourself back against the wall, breathe deep and try to keep yourself from pushing the phone directly into your ear, piece by piece, just to get his voice closer.  At the beep, you hang up and dial again, eyes closed, licking that thick flavour off your palate and silently working your jaw.  You breathe firm and deep, begin to rub your thighs, then slide down on to the floor.  The beep sounds again and you dial a third time, cupping the noise to your ear “Hi, this is Sam Winchester-” You arch your back, dragging your head along the carpet, and push your hand down between your legs, getting a solid whole-handed hook on your crotch and pull, fingertips pushing into your core, palm firm against your mound.

Dean’s eyes bulge, and he motions to Lucius to walk but as he takes a step forward- “Aah-  AAH-  ACHOO!”

He freezes, eyes glued to Sally who very soon runs her fingers through her frizzy mane from temple to nape and pulls on her own neck as she bares her throat at him, moaning “Uuuuhuhuhohooohh!”

Dean releases a hand from the gun, finger raised. “Sally.  Fucking **_no_**.”

“Yehss!”

“Sally?!” Lucius says, amazed and delighted.  “Oh, that’s just the most beautiful luck I have ever-” _BANG!_  

*thud*

*Beep!* “….Hi this is Sam Winchester…”

“Y/N?” Dean leans over you, stowing his gun and cupping your head a little, saying “Sweetheart you oka-” then braces himself against the wall as Sally enthusiastically drapes her body over his back.

“Oh Dean! It’s so good to see you!” she says breathlessly, rubbing and hugging with her arms and legs.  

“Sally, get offa me!” he barks, glaring at the wallpaper.

“Oh okay, okeydokey,” she says, smearing her face over his shoulders like a drunk cat and not retreating at all. “Okay.”

 _“Getoff!”_ he snaps.

“Yeah, okay.” She slides down, kneeling behind him, just hugging the back half of him, her hands on his ribs, cheek to his back, kind of hiding from his instruction.  “There we go.  All gone.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

“Love you.”

He sighs a very deep sigh and collects your gun while he maps out how he’s going to get this done.  Sally holds on like a baby koala.

You do your best to help Dean get you up, but there’s always one hand holding the phone, redialing Sam’s number at the end of every voicemail.  You can’t seem to pull it away for long enough to bring up your own inbox, knowing full well that several longer and nicer messages of his would be much better to listen to.  This is all you can do right now.  You can do this, and walk.

Dean keeps one arm around your waist as you head out the back of the business.  Sally ghosts him by inches, tripping on his heels and hovering her hands over his shirt, wishing she could hug his waist and coast along like a waterskier.  She maintains a running commentary the whole time “I’m just here Dean.  Not touching! No touching. You smell so nice.  Oh look at you walk. Gosh.  Mmmmm.  Those jeans are good on you.  Good-good.  Okay, yeah, let’s cross the street.  Oh must stay close, for your musk, no touching!  Later, later-later…” As you cross the street, she does a low lunging run, like she’s trying to keep in his shadow, arms straight and hands flappy, then dances around him as he helps you into the front passenger seat.  

He lets her follow him as he opens the backdoor and gets in - “Oh yes some back seat action, I can lay, or you can lay, and I can give you oral sex-” Dean winces from the waist up and cuffs her hands behind her back. “Hands free?” she whines. “But I want to feel your curly hair!”

He imagines punching her unconscious and lets it keep him calm.

Dean climbs out the other door and into the front seat. He looks over at you: you look relaxed but on close inspection you’re really, really not. You still have the phone to your ear, the other hand working a grip on the seat belt. Your legs are crossed at the ankle, braced so tight you can’t bend them. Your plan is to not move till you get to the bunker.

Considering you seem in control, Dean starts the car and heads for home.

…

“Okay, so the good news is the coven leader is dead,” Dean tells Sam.  “-Get off- I shot him.”

“Good, it’ll be nice to get you guys home-”

“Yea- _Get_ off!”

“What’s going on?” Sam asks.

Dean glares at the road, ignoring how glaring hurts his eyes now. Sally is nuzzling her face all over his head, around the back of his collar and ears, and has been since they turned it of the first street. He’ll have a bald patch before Kansas at this rate.

“Okay, so the bad news is we have two problems- I swear to God Sally, keep your damn self offa me-” Dean growls and shoves her face back.

“Dean, what’s happened?” Sam asks, his concern growing.  

Sally comes back to her spot, licks the stubble of his light-brown hair, draws some of the longer strands into her mouth and begins to chew.

“Just hang on a sec.”  Dean pulls over and gets out to open Sally’s door.  She jumps, frog-like, into his body with no regard for her lack of arms.  Somewhat graciously, he manages to turn her around and push her back into the car, pinning her chest to the seat.  He undoes one cuff, ignoring her deep _Dean oh Dean please, please just lick me, my skin, oh you smell like heaven, you gorgeous Addonnis, Dean please,_ and loops it through the seat belt - through the loop that’s made when it’s shortened - and fastens the belt in place.  It doesn’t occur to Sally to undo anything, and her tone starts to whine as he leaves her there - _Oh nuh please come back, please Dean, okay? I’ll start, it’s okay, I’ll start for you, here I go…_

Dean slams the door and pinches the bridge of his nose as he recollects the phone. “You there?”

“Ya.”

“Okay, so he - the head witch - smacked Y/N with another powder spell. But this one’s a few notches worse I think.”

“What kinda curse?” Sam asks getting himself back to the spells section of the library.

“Sally seems to have gotten a whiff of it, and she can’t keep her patchouli ass off me, but Y/N hasn’t budged an eyelash since we got in the car. How many voicemails you got now?”

“Uh… Jesus.  About 300 missed calls,” Sam reports. “Holy shit…”

“Yeah, it’s been 10 minutes,” Dean explains and sits back down in the driver’s seat. “He had the stuff smeared all over her face. It’s like redialing your number is the best she can do. I don’t know man… Looks pretty bad.”

“Four hours,” you rasp.

“What’s that?” Dean hides the phone and leans a little so he can hear. Sally’s got one knee on the floor, squeaking the springs as she ruts the crux of her groin along the edge of the rear seat. Her sof _t Deanie, Deanie, De-oh! DeanDeanie_ isn’t that soft in the confined space.

“He said four hours,” you tell him, every little muscle in your mouth protesting at the work. “And death.”

“Okay,… so shit just got dark,” Dean says to Sam. “Don’t answer her calls, and see what you can find about grey powder for lust or something like. Looks like we’ve got till 2pm to figure this out.”

“Or what?” Sam asks.

“Death, apparently.”

“How far away are you?” Sam asks, already headed for the kitchen to get water, and then to the garage to find some rope.

“We should be there with an hour to spare.”

Sally figures out to unbuckle the seat belt and uses the length to scootch forward so she can touch Dean again.  She hops her chin up next to his neck and he leans forward, chest to the steering wheel, grinding his teeth.  After a few miles he eases back but she’s where he left her, ready, open mouthed.  He doesn’t sigh so much as push fury out of his body, and sits back, tolerating Sally attaching herself to the shell of his ear.

The rest of his journey is soundtracked by Sam’s distant voicemail and Sally’s dedicated suckle.

…

In the last half hour, where the roads are so familiar, you’re frustrated with every corner for not being the last already, and you’re starting to move.  Your muscles are building up some sort of lactic ache, craving not so much activity but resistance and force.  Whatever the curse has created in your body should’ve been put into action hours ago and now its running at the walls within you.  Your heels are starting to wear a patch in the footwell carpet and the front seat has developed a squeak because you keep lengthening your body in an effort to spend some of this crackling heat.  Clenching your jaw for this long should have you in migraine territory already - you ought to be aching for a warm bath - but since Sam’s voicemail stopped working, you’ve only been imagining him, his hands, his engaged muscles and the sounds you’ve heard from the depths of his throat.

Every now and then you think you’ve only got a few seconds of lucidity left.  If Dean were to ask you a question this would be, surely, the last time you could give him a full sentence, but that feeling has been strung out for miles.  The overlapping tracks of thought make for a crowded brain - _Will Sam be ready for me? What can he possibly find in this time with so little information? What will a cure look like without a hack? Have I soaked through to the leather?  Will Dean be angry? Surely I’m not the first.  Why doesn’t this hurt more?  How does it ache so hard?  Can a clitoris actually double in size?  Am I going to be wrung out? I feel so strong…_

You start to work your tongue around your mouth, warming it up for a word, cranking your jaw and dilating your mouth.  Dean glances over as best he can while tethered to Sally’s mouth, and tries to watch you while he pushes the speed limit.

“Call Sayum,” you say, working your muscles through the task.  “Uh… Tell him rope.  Water,” the words start to become familiar again.  “Tell him I won’t be me.”

“He knows, Y/N,” Dean assures.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” you say and swallow with such force you check your tongue is still in your mouth.  You push yourself up and sit square in the seat.  Your fingers find the dash and the pads press themselves with a pulsing urgency as you focus on each next turn, on where the road converges, and wonder if you can transfer some of this energy to the engine.

Dean pulls out his phone and dials Sam, relaying the message.  You’re surprised, a little worried, to feel such anger at the sound of his voice, something accusatory that tastes like betrayal, even though you know there’s nothing to justify it.  

The way you’ve bound yourself up so far is coming undone.  The release you created so you could speak has snipped one strand of the bindings, and now you can feel the rigidity unraveling from your neck down.  Muscles are shifting the rhythmic rock of resistance into a rolling flex, trying to bite or grab or get.  Where you were controlling your exhales before, steady and forceful, now you’re drinking in oxygen like you have a circular system.

And all this, it’s nothing.  This is manageable.  This could still be an extension of yourself as you know it, but you can feel that being pushed back into your head, down, back behind your ears, those thoughts and questions becoming muffled in your fist.  You have a list of words you want to say to Sam before you hand yourself over and as much as you’ve been chanting them to yourself these past hours, now it feels like you’re listening to the echo of your own voice.  

Nails of fear prick into the back of your shoulders as you feel how this is the face of this curse, just the threshold.  What will you look like at full tilt?

Beyond your range of comprehension, Sam is telling Dean he needs to make a decision about Sally too.  Knocking her out for the duration of the curse will kill her, or at best make her gravely ill since she’s affected somewhat less than you.  Maybe it will take longer, but the parts of the curse are the same: dead is dead no matter how gentle it is.  He needs to decide if he’s going to let her die or… well.  Sam’s research seems clear.  It’s fuck or kill.  Marry is optional.

Finally, the driveway to the bunker is in sight.  You unbuckle the seatbelt, and turn yourself to the door, grasping the handle and watch the entrance like a dog for a bone.

“Now, just go easy, Y/N,” Dean says uselessly behind you.  As if you could rein this in.  “Just breathe and walk it.  He’s gonna meet you-”

The car drops down to about 3 miles an hour and it’s good enough.  You leave the car door open and run.  There’s a groan of surprise at the sensation of trying to max your gait when your groin is aflame with arousal and it makes you stumble, touching the dust to right yourself, and you press over your pockets and creases.  You can’t tell if things are fuller, or maybe slacker, than usual, but nothing there wants anything other than fulfillment, literally, and you’re sure you can hear your pussy as you move.  Your body feels taller, stronger, energy bashing out of your muscles, hungry for more than just lunging down the bunker stairwell.  They want resistance.  They want violence.

There’s a simple sound from the side of the library, maybe Sam saying your name.  Your peripheral vision registers the rope on the table and a fading voice in you thanks God.  It’s the last time you feel yourself think freely.

You know he’s there between the shelves, and run with lunging steps that stretch tendons with a satisfying sting.  He has time to raise his hands and start some sensible speech, intense with instruction, but your impact knocks him back into the wall of shelves.  His surprise and noise echoes in the cavernous space - a deep _oovff_ \- and you realise then you can hear yourself growling, gritting your teeth, as you grab and grapple.

He lets you take his clothes in your fists and tries to wrangle you small with open hands and herding arms, but you’re able to fight and use your weight.  Very quickly he’s frowning at your force.  It is more than usual, and then he’s sure that it’s far more than it should be.

You back into him, grabbing and shoving to throw him, almost over your shoulder, then thread between his limbs to kneel on his arms and grab his hair, pulling it so his neck is taught, chin stretched and stinging, and you lean over so that your weight pins his arm bones and you can look him in the eye.  

He grunts at the sharp discomfort of your knees in his muscles, stymying any ability to flex, and you can see, from the look on his face, he’s fucking worried.

“He thinks,” you say, heavy with spit and teeth, “he can break us.  It wants to do something to you to break me up you- break me, us-”  You cough and growl to get your words back, feel your eyes water a little and squish them clear.  “Sabotage hearts.  Sam,” you puff, rocking yourself to focus, breathe, pour a clean breath down your spine, open your face to release and plead with him, grim and determined, through a moment of clarity.  “Sam, you have to fight me.  Make me come. Fight me and win.”

“I gotcha Y/N,” he rasps, barely able to close his jaw.  “We got this.”

“If you say no,” you whisper, nearly choking on your autonomy, “I it self-destructs- feel like if I even hear it-”

“Y/N, we’ll get through this, okay?” he tells you and wriggles, pushes and pulls with his feet to throw your weight.

“-like no means you don’t want me- I’ll implode!”

“Okay, okay, you know I won’t say no,” he assures, still working on escape.

You can feel your superego submerging while the ache in your pussy starts to resonate up into your belly and down towards your knees. “Sam,” you plead, “uh! Gag me! I can’t listen to myself tell you how hard _I want to fucking take you Sam get your cockinmycunt-”_

Sam’s calf appears and lands across your chest, pulling you off him.  You fight, scratching blindly, and he has to use all his precision and focus to contain you.

With your back on the ground he leans over, letting you squeeze your legs around him and grind yourself on his waist.  He gets a wrist in each hand, stern and determined, and the tightness makes your skin twist and burn.  He ignores your _gonna fucking suck the cum right outta your balls, spread my ass Sam, fuck everything_ , and works your chest into his with the angles of your arms.

Under the attack of bites and licks, Sam manages to get himself standing with you held and attached to his front and walks you to the table.  He leans over, laying you back and pressing his weight against you, then pinches your wrist together while he collects the rope.

Sam surprises himself with how quickly he can tie your wrists above your head.  It’s awkward and likely painful, but you’re strong, you’ll be okay.  He grunts openly at a particularly toothy hickey and catches your mouth with a large loop of rope.  When that’s secured around your head, he uses the length to pull you away from him, leans his hand against the table top and lets you roughly rut against his hip where your legs still hold him.

Your hands are clasped together above your head, and your eyes are closed. A good sign, he thinks, that you’re present enough to keep images of this from your memory, but in seconds you’ve opened them and he’s shocked to see they’re bloodshot through.

He drives the fear away, let’s his care for you come forth, and quickly fumbles with his spare hand to open your jeans and push the fabric aside.  Everything is damp and the cottons squeak as he moves away so he can undress your lower half.  Your feet stop pulling him near and start skidding over the floor, as though you’ve blazed through the peak of strength already.

He shoves down the elastic of his track pants and boxers and for a moment he’s thinks he’s too scared to get it up - literally petrified - so closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He looks at your panting form, your gutter talk now just short aching moans, and tries to remember the heat of it that first time, the affection that’s built since.  Then he sees your shoulder shift, easing half an inch or so, into a slightly unnatural shape and you wince and cry out behind the rope.

“No,” he says, brushing his hand over you, “Nonono keep it together baby.  Come on, I got you.”

You’re trying to nod, but you’re lost, swimming inside your own body from ankles to neck, everything near-liquefied in wait for what this asshole curse has set as the only cure.  

“Come on beautiful girl, stay here, I got you.” He smooths his hand down your neck and breast and estimates he has maybe 30 minutes before the curse makes your body atrophy in front of him.  

You nearly yell at him for the contact, throwing your chest forward with your remaining strength and flop back to the table like a choking fish.  You’re just desperate now, all that energy and battle-ready fire having burned you too hot.  The muscles of your body are starting to be consumed.

Sam leans over, onto the cloud of heat around you, and murmurs in your ear.  “You know I love you, right?”  This is not how he wants to deliver this news, and he says it with the hope it’s always been known.

You whimper back, a shuddering sound that gargles slightly by his ear.  In his hand he can feel your body soften, your ribcage feeling wider, and he starts to chant to himself “I love you, I love you, I loveyouIloveyouIloveyou…”  If he frowns hard enough, focuses on his desire, all that passion he held back the first time you were in his care, and then thinks of the rage he has- there it is.  A switch is flipped.  No witch is going to take you from him.   _Fuck that.  Fuck this._

He hardens all over, grows angry, and starts throbbing to fullness.  As soon as he thinks he has enough rigidity he moves forward into you.  You squeal, squish tears out your eyes, and Sam gasps as how soft you feel.  Straight away he begins to move, wasting no time, taking heart in how you seem to be getting some relief now.

And although you know your mouth would slur words about his cock and your cunt and the fucking and how much you crave it, you know you love him.  You love him too.  

It feels good, amazing compared to everything else.  You want it so desperately but you’re losing the ability to help him and respond. It’s really just your voice now, your voice and your breath.

“Come on sweetheart, I got you,” he pants, ignoring the wet sounds between you that squidge more than ever, ignoring how still and lax you’ve become.  Your fingernails have grown red around the cuticles, and Sam pretends your gums aren’t beginning to bleed.  Then your other arm sags outwards, giving in the shoulder joint and you barely react, all your focus driven to his cock slipping into and out of you.

Sam reaches down and circles lightly around your clitoris, the slightest of pressure, and you let yourself fly with it, managing to work a clear “Yeah” out from behind the rope.  He clings to it - the idea that he’s truly pleasuring you inside all of this pain - and tilts the thrust, up into where he remembers if feeling best, and flicks your nerves, letting himself relax enough to come, praying that you can come too.

Sam’s efforts strike the flint inside.  The spark is electric and teasing, a nanosecond of sweet release and ecstasy, and then your body catches fire. Heat and pain smacks along your bones and muscles, whipped with steel, yanking your tendons tight and righting your form.  Everything about you snatches, arms jolting and legs clamping onto him, and he barks out “OH! God! Ohshit!” as your pussy viciously constricts around his softening cock.  He scrambles to release you, rope loosened and pulled aside so he can hold you, puts his palms over your ears to cradle you and kiss you.  You’re covered in a film of salt and serum, coppery flavours scented with adrenaline, and he kisses you as gently as his flailing heart will allow, his breath driving back and forth over your cheeks.

You try to kiss him back, even as your chin creases and you start to sob, and he kisses your eyes, thumbs your temples and murmurs “You’re okay, I got you-”

“Uh, Fucking hell.”  You’re voice is tight and wobbly and you struggle to calm down and stop shaking.

“Yeah,” Sam nods, because it was.

You almost laugh, but that gives way to tears again.  “I was falling apart!”

“Yeah, I know,” he says gently and works at being the one who doesn’t cry.  “You did so good, Y/N.  You were so brave.”

You nod and cry, whimpering when you try to be quiet.  

Sam pulls out of you and lays you on the table properly, draping a blanket over your body.  He pulls his pants up enough, drags a chair over with his heel and grabs a bottle of water (another thing you hadn’t noticed before).  Then he gathers you up in his lap, helping you drink and tucking you warm against him.

“You feel better?”  He keeps nuzzling you, pushing his closed mouth over your brow so he can smell your hair and feel your presence.

“Yes.  The water is good.”  You’re still vibrating and hot, like you’ve been carbonated, your skin remade and slapped over your muscles.  Hunger, itchiness, filth and restlessness threaten to pull you apart again, but you can feel the rush of exhaustion on it’s way.  “Thank you for saving me with your magic dick,” you mumble.  “Again.”

Sam huffs, clenching his jaw at their bad fortune, thankful that it’s with you.  “It’s easy.”

“No.  What?” You look up at him for more.  

“As easy as it can be,” he explains, “because I love you.”  He’s so calm now, wrung out and seemingly unsurprised about his feelings.

“I can tell, Sam.  It shows, always.”  You cup his cheek and reach up to kiss him, hardly anything between you when you look him in the eye and tell him “I love you, always.” He kisses you back, watching and warm.  You look forward to being able to use your body.

“Help me have a shower?”

“You got it.”

…

In the dungeon, beyond as many doors as Dean can close, he has a beer swinging from the fingers of one hand and sandwich in the other. He leans back in the chair, drops his heel on the table top and takes a bite.

After dragging Sally down here (half considered checking the Acquisition room for a [rabies stick](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.shopmedvet.com%2Fproduct%2Fketch-all-pole-4-ft-the-most-popular-for-general-use-2-lbs%2Fpet-grooming-restraints-muzzles-scratching-post-greenies&t=NTU2YzczMzM1NGYzODYxNWQ0MjVkMzFlNmY3YzJhYThmOTIwNDc0ZCxHVXVKcnM0eA%3D%3D&b=t%3AIXa2i0YjFeYnq2qFbqpJqg&p=http%3A%2F%2Flittlegreenplasticsoldier.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F154753589222%2Fboom&m=1), or a muzzle), he cuffed her to a loop bolted to the floor and got himself a snack, enjoyed the chance to walk freely, without her licking and plucking at him, his clothes unpulled and her voice out of his ear.

He returned to watch what would happen.  He wanted to make sure that whatever it was, was finite.  

“Dean!  Come here baby and fuck me!  Come get that gorgeous great big salami in my muffin!”  Sally got her thumb into the waistband of her cheesecloth skirt and started to slide it, shuffle herself, in an effort to get it down.

“No Sally,” Dean told her, “I’m not fucking you.”

“But I NEED it Dean!   _I need it!!”_ She was shrieking, her voice ripping up and down between panic and thirst.  “I _don’t know what will happen_ if you don’t, ooohgod, oh fuck yes, my cunt!” She started to pound against her own hand, chin grating on the dusty concrete while she focused on the relief, and groaned lowly out her long throat. “Oh so empty….  Uh.  AaaAAh Huh AAAhuh  aaaAAAAH! AAAAAWOOOOLORDY-DOOOOOOoooo!”  

Sally lay there, panting, and rested her cheek on the ground to look at him.  After a few seconds, she squished her face into a crumpled pout.  “It didn’t wor-h-h-k!!”  Dean rolled his eyes.  Sally bounced her hips up and down in tantrum and started back at panting and pleading, her voice bouncing all over the place - desperately lusty one second, terrified the next.  “I _need_ you, Dean.  Those lovely thighs, like Atlas.  OhGod! _Letmebiteyourbottom!!_  DEAN!!   _Please,_ I don’t know what’ll happen-”

“I don’t _care_ what’ll happen,” Dean snarled.  “But I’m gonna make sure it stays done.”

So, unfortunately, bearing witness also involved being in the room as Sally made herself come over and again, a few more times by rubbing herself through her skirt and underwear, then with her fingers.  He looked at the other wall while she writhed on the floor, cuffs grinding against the concrete and blood oozing from her wrists where she pulled so hard to get her fingers past her underwear and into the depth of her pussy.  

“Oh yes, ooohyes, you could do this, ohyes this, Dean, your great big meaty fingers. Ooh I’m so fleshy down here, you’d love it, I’m a full meal Dean.  A fleshy, meaty, mmmusky burger.  PleeEEEeeEEEASE-AH!!”

Dean scowled so much he thought his head might’ve actually gotten shorter.  Slowly his eyes crept back to her, hard and glaring, watching her progression with detached disgust, like it’s the best of Shark Week.

Now Sally gazes at him, addicted and unblinking, and she talks with her jaw slack.  Dean thinks she’s gotten bigger somehow.  He estimates there’s maybe 20 minutes left on the clock.

“Come on… gorgeous man… uh… chh-ome on and fuck meh, oh I wan your cock Den, fuck meh, aah! Aaaahhh.”  He guesses she’s coming.  She might also be dying.

Then he hears a dull knocking sound and he blinks, turning his head a little to look at her properly.  Her jaw has dislocated.

Sally sags all over and Dean realises it’s not that she’s grown; she’s spread.  Her forearm still twitches, digits wiggling away beneath her where they’re tucked into her wet creases, into her collapsing body.  A low “Nguh nnnguuu-huh Deh-h-h-h.” She sounds like an old pug dog now, snoring while awake, but nothing more happens.

Dean watches intently, entirely focused on Sally’s body as it disengages, the internal organs losing purchase on the structure, joints dissolving their links.

When Dean’s phone rings, he holds it up in front so he can see the name without turning away.  “Yeah.”

“Y/N’s okay,” Sam says.  “But she almost wasn’t.”  Dean can tell Sam’s gotten a fright from the ordeal, which makes his blood boil.

Dean checks his watch.  “The time’s up.”

“Is Sally still alive?” Sam’s words have that stoney bite of revenge.

“Sort of.  Don’t worry about it.”

“…Thanks Dean.”

“You got it.”

Sam hangs up and Dean cocks his head a little, trying to judge if this deep-sea creature in clothes has changed any more.

He stands and walks to Sally, squats down beside her, far enough away that she can look at him talk.  “Y/N is cured.  Your curses haven’t worked on us.”

Sally doesn’t respond, but it might be because she can’t.

Dean pulls his gun from his waistband and gestures at her puddle of self.  “Looks like this is where you stop, Sally.  Time’s up and you’re not getting better, but you’re not getting worse either.  I could leave you here to starve to death, or suffocate, but I seriously can’t be bothered with you any more.”

He stands, taking aim.  She stares emptily at the place his beautiful face once was.

“You know, back when I was your master for a day, I shoulda ordered you to kill yourself.”  Dean fires two shots, two inches apart, since he can’t quite tell where the centre is any more, and Sally dies.

He finishes off the last of his beer, collects his empty plate, and goes to retrieve a shovel and a wheelbarrow.


End file.
